Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  “Depends on my mood,” she said. “Amytal? Percs? Dems if I’m really depressed. Like today.”

  “Why are you depressed today?”

  Clio drew a breath and let it out. “My best friend just dumped me.”

  “Why’d she do that?”

  “She thinks she’s too good for me.”

  “No she doesn’t.”

  “How would you know?”

  He smiled. “Cup your hand.”

  She did, and he pressed a little round pill into her palm.

  “What is it?”

  “Just a little old-fashioned dexie. It’ll lighten things for a while.”

  He passed her his Red to chase it with. She kept her eyes on him as she drank. Then she had a thought: “Hey, how do you know my name?”

  Tara saw Clio flirting with Shaw and ceased to breathe.

  She thought, everything I did to protect her has only made things worse. Because now she thinks I deserted her. Now she’s furious with me. She might have fucked Shaw anyway, but now she surely will — just to hurt me.

  She saw Clio break into a laugh, and though it was drowned out by the bar noise, she knew just how it sounded: cutting but playful. Tara had one like it in her own arsenal. You put the boy down cleverly and use the laugh to throw him off balance, then soften it into a giggle at the end. She could see it was working for Clio. She could tell by Shaw’s expression — kind of confused but beguiled at the same time. He was caught.

  Aunt Miriam came up to Tara and started chirping: “Oh, child! That was the best news ever! We’re so proud of you. I believe God truly has a purpose for your family. I think when He gives so generously, it’s because He has a purpose, don’t you? These things don’t just fall out of the sky for no reason. There’s nothing that happens in this world without a reason …” And on and on, but Tara hardly heard, as all her focus was on Clio and Shaw. He was showing her that cocky little smile of his. She stood on tiptoe to speak into his ear, to share some intimacy, and he reached up and traced the serpent on her cheek with his fingertip, audaciously zigzagging down the coils.

  Tara felt something give way then, in her vitals.

  A tiny snap of jealousy.

  He’s my demon, my hell; leave him alone.

  The thought was gone in an instant. But she could feel its poison lingering in her mind, and meanwhile Aunt Miriam kept twittering: “I mean don’t you think this Shaw boy is just a jewel? He’s truly devout, Tara. That part’s very real. I think he’s an absolute gift from God, if you want to know what I think …”

  Romeo knew he wasn’t welcome at the trailer. He knew if he stopped there, Wynetta would come after him with a kitchen knife. But he wasn’t planning to stop — he just wanted to drive past, for a glimpse of Claude.

  But when he saw that Wynetta’s truck was gone, he pulled right in. He went up to the door and pushed it open. Claude lay there with no blanket. His eyes lifted slowly. “I feel. Great,” he said. Then turned away with a gypsy-dog look of remorse. There was a sour smell, and the sheet around his ass was stained a rich walnut.

  Romeo asked him, “Where’s Wynetta?”

  Claude attempted to shrug.

  Romeo went to the linen closet and found sheets, threadbare but clean. At the sink he rinsed out the sponge and filled the enamel pot with warm water. Then he went to work.

  So long as he was taking care of things, he felt lighthearted.

  But as soon he was done, the moment he had Claude all cleaned up and resting peacefully in fresh sheets and pillowcases with a new bag of morphine seeping into his system, Romeo felt the weight of all his troubles again.

  He lay down on the bed, next to the old man. The two of them gazed up at the spiderwork cracks on the ceiling. Claude’s lips were moving, and he seemed to be struggling through some train of thought. But maybe that was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all — maybe he was just suffering.

  Romeo said, “Has it kicked in yet?”

  Long pull of silence. Then Claude said, “I think. I know what. You’re doing here. You’re supposed. To kill someone. Right?”

  Romeo took a breath. “Yes.”

  “But you’re not. Ready?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well. Then. You should. Practice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Killing,” Claude whispered.

  “Practice killing? How would I practice killing?”

  “On me.”

  “I don’t …”

  “Please,” said Claude.

  “Oh my God. Claude. Wait for the morphine. It’ll work in a minute.”

  “Can’t you give me all the morphine? Give me the whole bag.”

  “It’s on a pump, Claude. You can’t get it all at once.”

  “Help me.”

  The look on the old man’s face — all selfishness and weakness — was crushing to Romeo. That this pillar of strength should be crumbling right before his eyes.

  “Claude. I can’t do that for you.”

  “Just. For practice.”

  “Try to understand, Claude.”

  “To get. In shape. For the real thing.”

  “I can’t! You don’t get it. I gotta get worked up for this shit!”

  “Please,” said the old man. He was begging. How could he be so weak? Romeo wondered. How could he have fallen so low?

  “I’ll see.”

  “Please,” said Claude.

  “I’ll see. Later. But I gotta go now.”

  Romeo arose from the bed and walked out. He shut the door behind him. He got into the Tercel and drove. He didn’t know where he was going. Without thinking he started making a circuit.

  No. I don’t want to make a fucking circuit.

  This time, when he came to the turn for the St. Simon’s causeway, he took it. He crossed the marshes and came to the island, which he found to be well-manicured but dull. Retirement condos, offices for osteopaths, phony-looking palm trees. But he followed a sign to the village, and found an old and kind of sweetly run-down settlement, a last gasp of character and grace. Murphy’s Bar was easy to spot. So many folks were milling outside the Jackpot Party.

  He pulled over on a side street. Under a spreading oak. From this vantage he had a clear view of the bar, the partygoers flowing in and out.

  This misery he was feeling, couldn’t he use it somehow? Work it up into some kind of rage? That was the key, a little rage.

  Then he noticed someone coming out of another door, a back door.

  It was Shaw. Trying to slip away without being spotted by the crowd. Hovering near the dumpster, waiting for someone. He didn’t see Romeo parked in the shadows down the street.

  Then Clio drove up in her Miata. Shaw got in, and they drove away. Romeo’s heart went slamming around in his chest.

  Clio. She’s mine. That was Clio.

  She’s all I care about in this fucking town. He knows that. He must. Doesn’t he give a shit? It doesn’t even matter to him? My best fucking friend!

  He followed the Miata. Allowed it a generous lead, and kept his headlights off, and pursued the car down a few back streets and then a little unpaved lane that led to the ocean.

  The Miata stopped. Romeo stopped.

  He got out quietly — carefully clicking the door shut — and went back to the Tercel’s trunk, and took the cavalry saber from its nest. He started toward the Miata. Oak branches were twined above his head. His footfalls were deadened by the sand. My best friend, he thought, my best fucking friend. He could see that the Miata’s windows were open. He heard passionate breathing. In the dark, he could just make out the lovers’ silhouettes.

  But he noticed, as he approached, that his rage was quickly fading. Was, in fact, gone. Now he didn’t know what he felt. There was the pain of Shaw’s betrayal, but this was indistinct against his general background pain. What he was mostly aware of was loneliness. And the thought occurred to him that at least Shaw was happy now.

  Shaw’s fingers roamed from Clio’
s breast to her thigh, then made a shrewd horseshoe turn and came gliding back up toward her pussy. She made a halfhearted attempt to stop him, clamping her thighs together, but didn’t stop kissing him. And he retreated for only a moment and then was back right away — his fingers circling their quarry closer and closer, and he knew she wouldn’t hold out long.

  “Jesus,” she breathed. “You just swoop down, don’t you?”

  She was here to be taken, wasn’t she?

  Soon he was pressing into her through her panties which were already soaked; his fingers pleading, insisting, till she sighed and relaxed a little and then he moved quickly, slipping under the elastic and into her, one finger, another, cupping her pubic bone against his palm. Her breath coming ragged, her musk, the smell of the sea, a mockingbird overhead. And the other girl in the bar, the one with the brightly burnished midriff — she’d be available for him later, wouldn’t she? And finally: Tara. Tara would be sleeping in the next room tonight, and every hour would bring her closer to him. He grinned. He had three fingers inside this one, and when her breath seized up he thought she was coming and he increased the pressure. Then she screamed.

  She was pushing him away and staring at something.

  He wrenched himself around to see. Someone was there. A figure, a man. Retreating. Carrying some kind of a long knife that glinted in the thin moonlight. Shaw was scrabbling at the car door, searching for the handle, and he found it and got the door open and barrel-rolled out, propelling himself into the dark.

  But the man was getting into a car. Headlights, and the car backing away violently, vanishing.

  Shaw turned back to Clio.

  She was sobbing. “He had a fucking knife! He was watching us! Who was it? Who the fuck! Was it?”

  Shaw didn’t say a word.

  Romeo parked where he had a clear view up Mallery Street to Murphy’s Bar. He waited, and soon enough Clio’s car appeared — stopping near the back of the bar — and Shaw got out, and the car drove off.

  Shaw snapped open his cell phone and jabbed at it with his finger. The phone in Romeo’s hand trembled like a frightened animal. He lifted it to his ear. “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Turn around,” said Romeo, and when Shaw did he flashed his lights.

  “Come here,” said Shaw. “Now.”

  Romeo pulled up and Shaw got in and shut the door hard. “Drive.”

  Romeo eased past the crowd in front of Murphy’s.

  “Drive! Before someone sees me. Get the fuck out of here.”

  A T-shirt store, then a souvenir shop, then a frilly ice-cream parlor. Shaw said, “You know, I really thought we’d done this thing. I thought we’d made these amazing lives for ourselves. You stupid shit.”

  Trying to keep a lid on his anger. But his mouth didn’t work right. An electrical hiss at the edge of his words. Finally he said, “So what is the matter with you!”

  “I don’t know,” said Romeo.

  Shaw demanded: “Tell me! Why the fuck were you standing there?”

  Romeo sniffed. “I don’t know.”

  Again Shaw said, “Why were you standing there?”

  “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Supposed to be the watcher, right?”

  Now Shaw blew up.

  “From a distance! You dumb fuck! You’re supposed to be invisible! You’re not supposed to be standing there when I’ve got my hand down some bitch’s pants!”

  Romeo said, “Is she just some bitch?”

  “WHO PUT YOU IN CHARGE OF FUCKING UP OUR LIVES?”

  Romeo bore down on the gas at the very moment that a platoon of frat boys, in flattops and green golfing pants, came strolling across the street. They were disinclined to yield till they realized their lives were on the line — then they hotfooted it, shouting obscenities after the car. Romeo hardly saw them.

  He drove to the village pier, parked, and walked off. Leaving Shaw with the car. Who needs the fucking car? He walked along the sea wall, past the miniature golf course and its rinkydink music, past families ambling along in the heat. Everyone was eating — ice cream, chili dogs, cotton candy — and everyone was dull and fat and waxen. He came to a sandbox with two big gray blobs that looked like the swollen corpses of fat kids. When he got closer he realized it was supposed to be a sculpture. A sculpture of swimming whales. God. Everything was so ugly and wrong here. What was he doing here? He needed to keep moving, find an ATM, get a taxi to the bus station and a bus back to Piqua, Ohio. Start right now.

  He sat on a low wall beside the whales.

  In a minute Shaw came up and sat next to him.

  “OK.” Shaw’s voice was full of remorse. “I think I just got it. You liked Clio. Didn’t you?”

  Romeo didn’t answer.

  “Oh Jesus. I’m sorry. I should have seen that. Why didn’t I see that? That was your backyard. You must hate me.”

  They stared out at the black swells of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Shaw said, “I’m just, I mean I’ve just been so keyed up, I’m not thinking straight. My God, if you’d seen them tonight. The Boatwrights, back at that bar? They’re all trying to submit. Even Mitch. He wants to submit. He wants it so much. And the wife wants me to fuck her. And, God, you went by the house — you see that? See all the people there? The whole world wants to submit. You know why, Romeo? Because of you. Because of you being out there in the darkness.”

  A horn buoy moaned offshore, just as Shaw was saying out there in the darkness. The harmony of it took Romeo’s breath away.

  Shaw said, “You know what I’ve been thinking about? About the history of the world, about how this is always the way. Anything good, or original, it’s never just someone with a plan. There has to be an enforcer too. Caesar had to have legionnaires. Thomas Jefferson had to have the Continental soldiers freezing their fucking feet off. Joseph Smith had that great story about the Golden Tablets, but he also had to have the Danites, to skulk around and murder his enemies. That’s how the good comes into the world — with a dark escort. Always the light is guarded by darkness. Always. Every great idea has a Romeo patrolling just outside. Every great idea is enforced by great terror. All right? I mean, if you want something else besides the shit they hand you? You want to make room for love or beauty or anything? You’ve got to be fearless and you’ve got to be merciless. You’ve got to make them kneel before the divine right of ravens. It’s a hard thing to accept, but it’s the way the world works. And what we’re doing, you and me, this adventure of ours? This is the best idea anyone’s had in a thousand years. But it all comes down to you. To you suffering in that darkness. To my knowing that you won’t let me down. You see what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, I do,” said Romeo.

  Really he didn’t see it very well, but it didn’t matter — what mattered to him was Shaw’s passion. The fact that sometimes in his presence Romeo felt OK about the strange meshwork-trap of his life.

  When I’m with Shaw, he thought, the rest of the world can go fuck itself. Fuck itself or not fuck itself, it’s not important because the world doesn’t exist. It only seems to. The so-called ‘world’ is here for our amusement only.

  Two young pigtailed sisters in cutoffs were coming off the pier, lugging a big ice chest between them. Their T-shirts were streaked with shark blood. And Romeo felt bold enough to say: “Hey, check out the meat puppets. They fuck each other, right?”

  “Only every night,” said Shaw.

  Romeo put a little leering growl into his laugh. “But what’s that on their shirts? Could that be menstrual blood?”

  “Oh yes,” said Shaw. “They’re pigs for it.”

  “They have no idea how disgusting that is?”

  “Kids today.”

  Then they both were laughing. They walked back to the car and took a drive. They cruised aimlessly. They went down some street with a lot of real estate offices and brokerages and big touristy restaurants: Crabdaddies, the Crabshack, My Crabby Aunt Sally. They found another road th
at ran parallel to the ocean. A lighthouse flashed away in the dark. Rowdy boys were setting off roman candles. Romeo was almost smiling. It was as though he and Shaw were finally on the vacation they’d intended. Now there would be girls and margaritas and softshell crabs, and the whole Southern night spreading out before them.

  But in fact they drove for less than ten minutes before Shaw said he had to get back. “I’m worried about the Boatwrights.”

  So Romeo took him back to Murphy’s, and left him there.

  He was alone for the trip back across the causeway. He looked out at the vast black marshes, which made him think of death, which made him think of Claude. Jesus. He still had to do something for poor Claude.

  Patsy had fallen into a nostalgic mood. It was after midnight, and she and Shaw and Tara and Mitch were in the Liberty on their way home from the party. Shaw wouldn’t let them put the a.c. on. He said he wanted the ocean air, so they kept the windows down which reminded Patsy of high school days, of riding around in Danny Duggan’s El Camino. Danny hadn’t liked a.c. either. Or maybe the a.c. just hadn’t worked in his crazy old pickup-car? Anyway, in those days you could still drive on the beach late at night, and if your windows were open the ocean air would come rippling in at you just the way it was doing now.

  “Mitch,” she said, “you remember Danny Duggan?”

  Mitch grunted. “What about him?”

  “Remember that thing he drove?”

  “I never hung out with Danny Duggan.”

  “Oh, right,” she said. “Danny Duggan wasn’t in Bible Club. He was e-vil.”

  She was aware of the sharpness in her tone but she didn’t care. She was drunk and she didn’t care about that either. She proclaimed to the whole car: “Danny Duggan taught me how to dance. He might have been e-vil but he sure knew how to dance.”

  Nobody answered her.

  She added, “Though he never danced like you, Shaw.”

  Does that come across as provocative? she wondered. And do I give a rat’s ass? “Shaw. Don’t you want me to tell you how you dance?”

  “OK.”

  “Like a lun-atic.”

  She laughed. He didn’t laugh with her, though. Nobody did.